


he is a king among thieves

by postcardmystery



Series: contra mundum [2]
Category: Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Genre: Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:57:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Purple is my colour, I suppose. The colour of your voice, I ever tell you that? & it flickers into indigo every time we're skin to skin. Was that too much? One can never tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he is a king among thieves

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for parental abuse of an adult child.

Some shithole in France.  
  
23rd - xii - 1929  
  
  
Sixsmith,  
  
I want to ask you for everything. Don't laugh, you know full well I'm prone to melodrama. Sitting on my bed & pressing my fingers into bruises pater made & all I can think about is your sunburn after that day on the Cam. Don't know why I'm telling you this. It's not like it makes the music come out faster.   
  
Been writing all the time. At Eton it was like a dripping tap, but now it's like a river. They'll hate it, of course. Well, what genius has ever been recognised in their lifetime. Don't answer that. I know you're simply  _dying_  to.  
  
Two weeks. Two weeks. Say it like a mantra, let it find its own beat. Don't. I've seen you dance. I like the feeling of  _you_  under my fingers, but it doesn't mean you don't have two left feet.  
  
Write to me, or by Jove I'll show you melodrama.  
  
R.F.

  
  
  
Your bed.  
  
17th - i - 1930  
  
  
Sixsmith,  
  
my wrists are still bruised.   
  
Don't I know what you like? Imagine my smile, because we both know I'm wearing it right now.  
  
Burn this before your bedder sees it, Lord knows I court enough scandal as it is.  
  
Purple is my colour, I suppose. The colour of your voice, I ever tell you that? & it flickers into indigo every time we're skin to skin. Was that too much? One can never tell.  
  
See you at supper.  
  
R.F.

  
  
  
London.  
  
4th - ii - 1930  
  
  
Sixsmith,  
  
bad news: pater's not dead. I'm not the only melodramatic bastard in this family, but then, you knew that already. Felicity continues to prove herself the absolute worst older sister, but that is hardly a surprise, either. Every time she sits next to me at the pianoforte her dress slips and I can see the top of her stocking. All I can think is about how that would provoke no reaction in you whatsoever.   
  
She looks like me, you know. Maybe she's the one girl you could be inspired to charm with that country boy smile of yours. I'd sooner kill the both of you with my bare hands, of course, but Lissy doesn't know that. She simply can't  _wait_  to meet you. Didn't tell her that all I had to do was roll my sleeves up and she could meet a part of you already.  
  
I know. I'm so cruel.  
  
I'll be back in the morning. Meet me off the train or I'll throw your gown in the Cam. Don't tempt me, it doesn't even fit you properly. Whatever did you do before me and my tailor?  
  
R.F.

  
  
  
Your desk.  
  
26th - ii - 1930  
  
  
Sixsmith,  
  
I can still taste you in my mouth. There's sweat at your hairline and you are, if you'd credit it, snoring your head off. I should be heading for the hills but I'm composing a sonata, fingers tapping on your desk, to the rhythm of it.  
  
It's all about to change. I want to ask you for everything, but I'm not going to. Pinched one of your cigarettes, why there's ash on the paper. Music feels like I'm drowning in it. Wish it was a tap. Wish I could turn it off.  
  
Oh, you know I don't. If anyone knows that, it's you. I'm not a poet but I've written sonnets to the rhythm of your heartbeat. Written on the wind, but Catullus was my teacher, after all.  
  
I'll play you this tonight. It feels like the one. Promise you won't dance.  
  
R.F.


End file.
